


Goodnight

by b_lurple



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, idk what else, they're yelling at each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_lurple/pseuds/b_lurple
Summary: aka shouting match in Patrick's hotel roombased on/inspired by the final show before the hiatusalso, this is my first fic! and it's all yelling! this is also my first time writing a completed story in a while, so it's a bit all over the place!
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Goodnight

“Goodnight!” Patrick shouted into the microphone.

He hadn’t tried to be this loud on stage before, but it’s not like he could hear anything anyways. His vision was blurring between blue lights and a sea of people. He could barely distinguish if they were shouting _at them_ or _for them_ , he wasn’t sure if there was a difference anymore. His mind was still stuck on a shaved head and black feathers.

“- goodnight!” He managed to catch the tail end of what someone behind him was screaming into his microphone.

Pete.

Maybe a couple of years ago Patrick would consider yelling at him backstage, telling him he was ridiculously idiotic and later find Pete draped across his side in a too-cramped bunk. But right now, he was too tired to try to pick any semblance of a fight, too tired to try to keep Pete in his line of vision, too tired to try.

By the time he managed to refocus himself from the trance he fell in from the stage to backstage, to murmuring voices, to a hotel room key in his hand, to someone else’s hands steadying his arms to an elevator ride, to standing in what looked like his hotel room based on the messy suitcases on the floor to waiting for his brain to catch up with the words that Pete’s mouth was forming.

“Why?” Patrick cut into whatever self-deprecating monologue Pete was reciting to him.

He was getting tired of the poetry, or at least he convinced himself he was getting tired of it. He was getting tired of the poetry that wasn’t meant for him, he was getting tired of the poetry that was, tired of singing the words that Pete would write but never say out loud.

“Why what? Why I’m terrible? Why I’m an assh-” Pete babbled, his makeup looked like it was getting smudged.

“Why are you here?” Patrick cut in again, why was Pete here? Did he think all of this could be resolved by guiding him to his room like an eight-year-old who fell asleep in the car?

“Why I’m here…?” Pete sounded a bit out of breath and a bit confused, “I’m here because you looked, well, faintish, and I wanted to make sure you were okay, Trick, I…”

“Okay?” He echoed back, he saw Pete’s eyebrow draw together more at this.

_Okay? Okay at what?_ Okay after watching Pete pull the stupidest stunt out his stupid head? Okay after watching his album that he fought for crash and burn? Okay after he watched himself fail. He failed so hard. He failed at everything. He failed Pete. God, Pete. Pete and his stupid wedding. Pete getting married. Pete having a child. He was the furthest thing from okay.

“Yeah, Trick.” Pete repeated. “Are you okay?

“Okay?” Patrick barked suddenly, maybe he did fail but his irritation at Pete’s lack of self-awareness started to ebb in his fingers. “Okay! You think this is okay? You think any of this is okay? God, Pete, think!”

Pete looked startled at his volume change. What happened to their special connection that Pete bragged about? Couldn’t he tell Patrick was the furthest thing from okay?

“I’m trying to help.” Pete whimpered back like a wounded animal.

“Help what!” He countered, feeling his pitch slowly grow higher. “Are you going to go back in time? Are going to let us, no, _allow_ us to end it as Fall Out Boy, not Pete Wentz and three other dudes? This wasn’t your show, Pete, this was the final one, it’s over!”

He let his face drop from the pained expression he was probably giving. This was exactly what Pete was counting on, he assumed, he was going to yell and Pete was going to find his way back into Patrick’s room. Didn’t Pete get it? It’s over. Pete needed to go. He had a life, a wife and kid, waiting for him, and Patrick had a darkly lit house in Chicago.

“It’s over.” Patrick continued tiredly, “Go away, Pete.”

“I just want to- “, Pete tried again.

“Go away.” He forced himself to keep his tone steady.

In return, Pete gave Patrick a small quirk of his lip. The kind of smirk Pete gave Patrick when he lectured Joe about the misclassification of a genre, or when he was convinced that they had to throw away a whole song based on a chord that didn’t quite feel right. Pete thought this was a game. Maybe not a fun one, but one he thought he could square away. A spike of anger shot through his spine. This was never a game to him. This was it and now it was over.

“Like forever? I’m not sure I could do that, Tricky.” Pete responded back with a trying grin.

Patrick’s eyes snapped open wide. Patrick felt like an old teddy bear that’s been through enough tight squeezes. The fluffing is falling out and nobody has bothered to check the seams. He’s tired and worn out. Why can’t Pete see that? That was the final stitch.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you!” He snarled, losing any sense of maturity he planned on showing. “You think this is some sort of joke? Well, you turned us into a _fucking_ circus and it’s _over_ , Pete!” Heat trickled from his eyebrow to his cheeks.

“Well, I didn’t ask for it to be over!” Pete shot back, mirth in his eyes dimming.

“Yeah? Well, maybe you could’ve not acted like a complete moron.” He hissed.

“No, _Patrick_.” Two words he’d never thought Pete would say as he matched his tone. “This was your _choice,_ this was all your choice. Folié was _your_ choice, the break was _your_ choice, this was _your_ choice.”

“It wasn’t my choice for you to get her pregnant!” He whispered harshly in-between his teeth before he could recognize what was falling out of his tongue. He knew Pete heard him anyway.

To confirm, Pete looked taken back by the hushed remark, his eyes clouding with an unreadable expression. It looked pained nonetheless.

“Patrick…” The other man said softly in a tone that he couldn’t help but register as _pity._

No. He didn’t want pity, he didn’t want _Pete’s_ pity. He doesn’t want an awkward smile and _I’m so sorry that you thought_. He didn’t need to hear Pete confirm that he wasn’t ever planning on actually being with Patrick, that he wasn’t actually _in love_ in the way he thought they were.

“No.” He whispered again. “No. No. No.” The ginger began repeating, his pitch hitching with every denial. “Go away, Pete, leave, go away, it’s over, _Pete._ I want you to _go_.”

“C’mon Tricky, you don’t mean that.” There he goes again, trying to smother the flames like when it got too out of hand in the studio, or when the smell of cramped bodies in a van got under his skin. But Pete was like a cool breeze, and only ever fanned the fire because he never took it as seriously as Patrick.

“I mean it! I meant it!” Patrick shrieked, blood boiling underneath his pale skin. “I want you to go and I don’t want to see you again. I’m tired, Pete, I’m tired of you Pete. I’m over you, everyone is over you, asshole! Everyone else finally as tired as me for the shit you pull!”

Pete’s expression hardened again, the same unreadable one trickled in. This wasn’t the first time he had told Pete these things before, but they were usually drenched in sarcasm and a great deal of exasperation. He never tried to mean it before. 

“Why did you want to go on break anyway?” Pete tensed as he mumbled, letting his pearly white teeth hitch up, “Couldn’t handle a couple of jerks telling you that you suck? Get over _yourself_ , Patrick.”

“Because you ruined it!” Patrick screamed in retaliation, prickles of tears stinging his eyes.

If Pete wasn’t looking wounded before, he was definitely severely injured now. His eyes widen like a deer caught in the headlights, like a deer the exact moment it’d been hit by a truck. It was probably a step too far, maybe Pete didn’t plan on ruining anything, it wasn’t like Pete didn’t already blame himself when anything went sideways. But to Patrick, it felt thrashed and thrown away. Every plan, every white picket fence, every daydream that ever-made Patrick hold onto something past eighteen was tarnished far beyond the original gold.

Patrick wasn’t sure if he meant it or not, but he wanted to say something that would _hurt_ , that would _sting_ and that would _last._ He hoped it would never fade from Pete’s memory because clearly everything else has.

He wasn’t quite sure how long they both stood there, locked in each other’s gaze. The room felt like it was getting tighter, the walls were caving in, and the oxygen must’ve been depleting because they both haphazardly swallowing in the fleeting air as their chests unevenly dropped and rose.

Patrick’s glare dropped sharply to the poorly-colored carpeting of the hotel room, willing the wetness around his eyes to dry up as much as his heart shriveled. He felt something drumming against his thigh before he realized it was his own fingers tapping out a familiar beat. He wasn’t going to let up, he wasn’t going to look up, and he wasn’t going to see anything. Because every moment he had seen, he saw warm ambers and hot whiskeys, he saw crinkled eyes and a tired grin. He saw everything that wasn’t _his_ and everything that he failed _giving._ He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Can’t you see…” He heard Pete trying to croak out something in front of him but static filled his eardrums.

He didn’t want to see anymore.

“Goodnight.” Patrick choked out curtly, a tightness seizing up in his throat.

He wasn’t going to look up. He wasn’t going to look _up_. He was terrified he’d find something that would make the tight line of his mouth wobble until he was in the older man’s arms, whispering reassurances into his neck that he was _so_ sorry. He was even more terrified he’d find relief. He waited until he heard an uncertain click of the door shutting before Patrick collapsed onto his knees, feeling a rush of hot tears overwhelm his cheeks.

“Goodnight,” Pete responded dejectedly through the door, loud enough that Patrick could hear him, but quiet enough that nobody else could. Typical.


End file.
